


Reanimated

by Accident



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 31 Days Of Halloween, Case Fic, John has hallucinations, M/M, No Mary Morstan, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Reunions, Sherlock's scars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26845960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accident/pseuds/Accident
Summary: Sherlock comes back from the dead and tries to pick up the pieces of his old life. That proves to be harder than he thought but will a bloodless case bring him and John back together?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 24
Collections: Accident's Solo Fics





	1. Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this a few days late for a 31 days of Halloween thing but we’ll see how many chapters I get out of this. More tags will be coming as the story progresses as I’m still writing it lol 
> 
> As always my wonderful beta and cheerleader is Bluebuell33 https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebuell33/pseuds/Bluebuell33
> 
> Any spelling errors are mine!
> 
> Enjoy!!!

Two years. 2

Twenty four months. 24

Seven hundred and thirty days. 730

Seventeen thousand, five hundred, and twenty hours. 12,520

One million, fifty one thousand, and two hundred minutes. 1,051,200

Sixty-three billion and seventy-two thousand seconds. 63,072,000

Two whole years he’d been dead. Now that time is over. The web was swept away. The spider squashed. No more horrors. No more phantoms. No more running. He was back and for better or worse he was coming home. 

“You’ve been gone a long time. You shouldn’t expect a miracle, brother mine.” Mycroft watches as Sherlock gets shaved. He’d never seen his brother in such a broken state. Not even when he was flying like a kite on a cocktail of drugs in his university days. This truly terrified Mycroft. 

“I’ve never believed in miracles. Why would I start now?” Sherlock sighs. Everything hurt. Everything. His skin is raw from scrubbing himself clean of the dirt and grime that has incrusted him while he was captured. Scrubbed himself of the torture he endured. The stitches that made his back itch. The ache of bruising that was splattered across his body. It was physical pain. He could deal with physical pain. Other kinds, not so much. 

“You’ve always been far too optimistic.” Mycroft sighs. He was trying to let his brother down easily but as usual Sherlock never made anything easy. 

“Where is he?” Sherlock sits up, wiping the rest of his face clean. 

“No longer at 221B.” Mycroft says vaguely. John Watson had left Baker Street two weeks after Sherlock died. He left everything and just walked away. 

“Stop this cloak and dagger. It’s childish and wasting both our time. I’ve already wasted too much of mine.” Sherlock stands, barely able to keep himself from swaying from the sudden rush of blood. He keeps himself upright by sheer force of will. 

“Doctor Watson retains Baker Street as his residence though he’s not lived there in nearly two years. After you left he drank himself into oblivion for about a week. Then he pulled himself together. He got a job at a local A&E as an attending physician where he worked his way up. He’s now the head of the department and specializing in trauma. Turned the entire department around from its hemorrhagic beginnings to one of the most successful and well run trauma centers in the country.” Mycroft holds a file out to Sherlock. 

Sherlock half listens to his brother as he pulls on his coat. His armor against the outside. The heavy weight is familiar, soothing against his mutilated back and psyche. He takes the file and slips it into his coat. 

“What will you do now?” Mycroft asks, watching his younger brother with mild interest to hide his concern. 

“I’m going to reacquaint myself with this city. She’s been without me for too long and I her.” Sherlock nods before sweeping out. 

Mycroft sighs as he watches Sherlock go before turning to his desk, making sure Sherlock’s surveillance team was tracking the newly reanimated man. 

Sherlock walked the streets of London for hours. Taking in the sights and sounds. He missed being in the beating heart of his city. He missed the rush of activity and the boring banal people who flooded the streets. He was finally home. Finally back where he belonged. 

No one recognized him. Gone for two years easily fades you from people's memories. Especially those who didn’t actually know you in the first place. He walked among the crowds of people, deducing their affairs and occupations as well as other trivial data. 

He was stalling. He knew that. He wanted to see John desperately but he was afraid. Cowardly was more like it. John would be upset and that was always awful. Shouting and stomping around. The way he acted grumpy for days if he was properly cross. This would definitely make him properly cross. 

Sherlock didn’t have to look at the file to find the A&E John worked at. It was close to Baker Street so John could see Mrs. Hudson if she needed him but far enough away to keep its looming presence at bay. He watches the ambulances ferry in and out of the bay as he smoked, more for the comfort in the action than the thrum of addiction. Sitting across from the entrance Sherlock finally pulled the file out, thumbing through the few pages. John hadn’t been as busy as Sherlock had assumed. 

The file noted how John locked himself in their flat for a week, only leaving to replenish his alcohol supply. Then suddenly after a week John seemed to have switched gears. While he was obviously still mourning he pulled himself together enough to look for a job. 

_Probably out of pride so he could pay the rent to Mrs. Hudson. Couldn’t be seen as a slouch, that Watson._

John soon landed an attending position at the A&E after a few trial shifts. His experience and nerves of steel were invaluable to the staff as well as the patients. He could pop a shoulder back into a place with one good yank and stem a bleeding artery with one pair of clamps. He apparently also had a flare for teaching. Passing on his hard earned knowledge to the other doctors in the area as well as fresh medical students. He’d organized some type of learning rotation between local A&E’s so that anyone who wanted to learn how to more effectively save a life could. 

However, John’s personal life was notably bare. No dates or relationships in the past two years. Not even a one night stand. Nothing. 

_Odd_

Sherlock closes the file and tucks it away as he stands. He drops the cigarette and crushes the embers under his shoe. 

_Into battle..._

The waiting room was hopping with cases, mostly non life threatening except for one woman who was in the beginning stages of a heart attack which she thought was just indigestion. 

Sherlock walks up to the nurses counter. “Page Dr. John Watson.” He orders. 

“Sir, please have a seat and wait your turn like everyone else.” The nurse on the phone points to the rows of chairs. 

“It really is quite urgent. Page Dr. John Watson.” Sherlock repeats. 

“Are you bleeding to death and or going to die in the next moment?” The nurse looks him over. 

“Not right now.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“Then sit.” She points with a well manicured finger. 

Sherlock goes and sits with the woman with the chest pain. Still stalling he knew but there wasn’t much for it. 

The woman rubs her chest, the discomfort becoming more intense. Her breathing labored and sweat forming on her brow. 

“Are you here by yourself?” Sherlock asks her, his voice gentle. 

The woman nods. “Drove myself. Couldn’t get anyone to take me. I’ve been having twinges all day. Thought I should get looked at.” 

“Quite right.” Sherlock nods. “Have you been looked at yet?” 

“No. Car accident came in just before me. They have been dealing with that. Quite a few cars from the motorway.” She has to pant so she has enough breath to talk. 

“This really is too much.” Sherlock frowns and stands. “We need a doctor here! Now! This woman is obviously having a heart attack!” He calls out. 

“Heart attack?” The woman frowns deeply as nurses rush over. 

“You’ll be fine. A friend of mine works here. Well, he was a friend at least.” Sherlock watches them take the woman away and sits back down. 

He should leave. He knows he should but he can’t bring himself to. Maybe he’ll just sit here for a while longer deducing what brings the people here. That’ll be fine. Then he’ll go home. 

After deducing six bouts of flu, two cases of actual indigestion not heart attack, and some kind of infection the doors to the back open up. 

“Were you the one asking for Dr. Watson?” A male nurse asks. 

“Indeed.” Sherlock nods, looking the man over. 

“This way.” He nods, leading Sherlock to the back and through the halls of the emergency department. He stops outside of an office door with the bolded words on the front ‘Doctor John Watson, Head of A&E’. 

“Make sure you knock. He gets cross when someone just bursts in. He heard someone was asking for him so he’s expecting you.” The nurse nods. 

“I highly doubt that.” Sherlock shooed the nurse away with a flick of the wrist. 

He stared at the door. The final separation between himself and John Watson. Before he can raise his hand and knock the door opens. Suddenly he’s face to face with John. 

“Sweet Jesus, not this again.” John rubs his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. He drops his head. “Huh, still here.” He hums and takes a step forward, colliding back first with Sherlock’s chest. He stills, deathly still. 

“John.” Sherlock says quietly, looking down at John. 

John pulls back slowly. He reaches up and touches Sherlock’s chest then his arms. “Solid.” He frowns and looks up at Sherlock’s face. He grabs Sherlock’s arm and wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist, feeling for a pulse. “Can’t be.” He mumbles, looking confused. 

“John.” Sherlock says again. 

“Shut up.” John grumbles, pressing two fingers to Sherlock’s neck, feeling his pulse there too. 

“It’s really me. I’m alive, John.” Sherlock swallows. 

“Good. Because I’m going to fucking kill you.” John growls, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s throat and slams him back against the wall. 

“John. John stop.” Sherlock chokes out. He could break John’s hold easily but he realizes John’s been hallucinating him and he doesn’t know what to do with this information. 

“You bastard. You bloody fucking bastard.” John growls, pressing harder. His hands are trembling, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. 

“I know. I know. I’m sorry.” Sherlock pries John’s hands from his throat. 

“How dare you? How dare you die and come back? How dare you leave me to rot?” John sounds like he’s going to be sick. 

“I’m sorry. It was never my intention-“ Sherlock starts. 

“I don’t care what your intention was! You fucked off for two years! You died!” John starts to hyperventilate. “I’ve lost it. I’ve finally lost it. You’re dead and now I can feel you and talk to you.”

“John, I’m alive. I promise you. I’m really here. I faked it. I faked all of it.” Sherlock tells him. 

“No. No. I can’t do this. Go away.” John pushes Sherlock off him, slamming Sherlock’s back against the wall again. 

Sherlock hisses, feeling some stitches split open. “Please, John. I had to.” 

“I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. Leave me alone.” John stumbles away, leaving Sherlock in the hallway. 

“Well shit.” Sherlock slides down the wall. 

After some time Sherlock slowly picked himself up. He could feel blood soaking through his bandages. He needed new stitches. He didn’t want to go back to his brother to fix them. There would be too many knowing looks and such pitied breathing. He also knew he couldn’t stay here to get patched up. John would know and he couldn’t take John knowing. Couldn’t take John seeing him bleeding and broken. No. He had to go somewhere else. He needed a taxi. 

Sherlock makes his way out onto the street, hoping he’s not leaving a trail of blood. He carefully raises his arm and gets in a cab when it pulls up to him. 

“Bart’s.” He says to the cabbie and sits carefully so his back doesn’t touch the hard seat. 

“This hospital not good enough for you?” The cabbie asks as he drives. 

“It’s the last place I want to be treated.” Sherlock says quietly, watching the A&E fade from view. 

The cab ride is quiet, the full sound of wheels on the road and the occasional pot hole that made Sherlock painfully aware of how badly he wanted painkillers. He hoped Molly was working and that she’d be willing to stitch him up. 

Sherlock pays the cabbie and makes his way into the big dark building. He slowly walks to the morgue, partially from wanting to see what was new about mostly from the fatigue that was gnawing at his bones. When he finally makes it to the morgue he waits in the doorway, watching Molly wield a bone saw over a freshly delivered corpse. Judging by skin color, swelling, and size of the midsection the deceased had been a lifelong alcoholic with liver failure being the cause of death. 

Molly finally looks up from the body to pick up another tool. “Jesus!” She drops the bone saw onto the tray, making the other instruments clatter. 

“Not quite though I have come back from the dead as it were.” Sherlock comes in. “Would you mind stitching me back up?” He asks, pulling off his Belstaff gingerly. 

“Sherlock Holmes, this is the first time I see or hear from you in two years and the first thing out of your mouth is that you need stitches!” Molly snaps her gloves off and takes off her eye protection. 

“Sorry.” Sherlock clears his throat. “Hi, how are you? New cat? Oh no. Two new cats.” He hums. 

Molly sighs and shakes her head, gathering the supplies. “What do you need stitched?” 

“My back.” Sherlock unbuttons his shirt and gently peels it off his blood soaked back. He sits on a chair backwards, so the back of the chair is to his chest. 

“Oh god, Sherlock..” Molly gasps softly as she sees the state of his back. 

“Please, Molly..” Sherlock nearly whispers, mostly begging. 

Molly gets to work. She gently cleans up his back, wiping away the blood and surveying what she needs to do. She worked slowly and carefully, gently bringing the ragged edges of Sherlock’s flesh back together. 

“You’re lucky you don’t need skin grafts..” Molly sighs.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” She asks when she gets no answer. 

Molly moves to look at Sherlock’s face and find him fast asleep. She‘s relieved he’s back but horrified that he can fall asleep like this while she stitches up his back with no medication. 

When she finishes stitching she cleans him up again and applies new bandages. Putting a blanket carefully over him so he doesn’t get cold in the morgue she goes back to work, keeping a close eye on him.


	2. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's life after Sherlock's death.....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEAVY HEAVY ANGST AND SOME BODY HORROR! BE WARNED!
> 
> As always my wonderful beta and cheerleader is Bluebuell33 https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluebuell33/pseuds/Bluebuell33

He doesn’t see Sherlock hit the ground but he hears it.

A sickening crunch.

The slap of a body onto the concrete.

Someone was screaming in a crowd of people but John couldn’t see who. He stubbles his way forward from where he was hit by a bicyclist.

“He’s my friend. Let me through. He’s my friend.” John pushes his way through the crowd.

“Oh Jesus..” He says, unsure if it’s a shout or a whisper, when he sees Sherlock’s body on the walkway.

Blood. So much blood. Head wounds bleed a lot because the head is very vascular. Have to stop the bleeding.

John tries to move forward but he’s on his knees. He’s being held back by hands he doesn’t know.

“I’m his friend. I’m his friend.” He gasps as if that would bring air back into the lungs of the man laying in a puddle of his own blood.

John gets to his feet, stumbling after the gurney as it takes Sherlock inside Bart’s. He hears the doctors and nurses talk. Massive head trauma. Internal bleeding. Multiple fractures. They can’t get a pulse. No spontaneous breathing. No pupil reaction to light. No reaction to stimulus. No reaction when knuckles are pressed hard against fractured ribs. Nothing.

“Time of dea-“ The attending doctor starts.

“No! No you can’t! You have to save him! Please!” John begs.

“There’s nothing we can do.” The doctor frowns, the other people starting to clean up.

“You can’t! You can’t!” John goes to Sherlock’s body.

“Wake up. Wake up, you mad bastard. Don’t you dare leave me.” He growls, starting chest compressions. “We have to try. We have to. He can’t die. He can’t.” He pumps Sherlock’s chest. He can feel the broken bones feel like jelly under his hands and vomit rockets up from his stomach. He bends over next to the gurney and heaves, getting sick all over the floor.

Someone’s screaming. He doesn’t know who.

Shut up shut up. Stop screaming!

His throat hurts. Oh. He’s screaming. It’s him. He can’t stop. He can’t breathe. He can’t. He can’t. He doesn’t feel the pierce of the needle loaded with a sedative before he fades into black oblivion.

Please God, let him live...

When John woke he was in a private hospital room, the beep of the heart monitor pulling him to consciousness. The sheets were crisp and warm over him and his head pounded.

“You’re awake.” Mycroft hums and John's eyes snap open.

“Sherlock.” John bolts upright and he feels the need to vomit again but there’s nothing left in his system to expel.

“Do be careful with yourself, Doctor Watson. They used enough tranquilizer on you to take down a Clydesdale.” Mycroft says quietly. He looks like shit. Three days in the same suit, dark circles under his eyes, his tie long forgotten.

John scrubs his hand over his face. “What the fuck happened?” He asks. He had a bad dream. A nightmare. He was used to those but they don’t usually land him in the hospital and certainly not with Mycroft Holmes keeping vigil at his bedside.

“You made quite the spectacle of yourself over my brother's corpse.” Mycroft says coldly.

John freezes. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. Not made up. Real.

“What?” John chokes out.

“Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart’s three days ago in an apparent double suicide after Moriarty shot himself in the head.” Mycroft explains.

“Bullshit.” John growls.

“Unfortunately not, Doctor Watson. I am an only child once again.” Mycroft stands.

“He can’t be dead. He can’t.” John looks down at his hands, remembering the way Sherlock’s broken sternum gave under his hands when he tried to revive him.

“He is. The funeral is this afternoon if you’d like to attend. Your suit is on the back of the door.” Mycroft nods and leaves John alone.

A few hours later John is discharged with a prescription for antidepressants and mood stabilizer. He’s dressed in his suit because those were the only clothes at the hospital for him to wear. As he walked out of the hospital a black car pulled up smoothly, the driver getting out and holding the door open for him.

John got in the car. Nothing felt real. He was on autopilot. He couldn’t think. Watching London fly by out the window felt like watching a movie being fast forwarded over a scenery he’d never seen before. Everything was foreign.

The car joins a very short procession right behind the hearse.

Doesn’t the widow ride behind the hearse? I’m not a widow. I’m not anyone.

The cars stop at the cemetery. The car door opens and John gets out, walking over a grassy hill. The shiny black casket is on the lowering platform. Mycroft is there and has changed into a black suit, missing the pocket square. Mrs. Hudson sobs into a soaked hankie, matching Mycroft’s. Molly Hooper holds Mrs. Hudson up, tears in her own bloodshot eyes.

John feels ice run through his veins and the urge to run is completely overwhelming. His chest feels tight and his heart pounds so loud he’s sure it could wake the dead. Breathing is a struggle but he doesn’t know if it’s because of the leftover sedative or that his sinuses must be nearly swollen shut from crying. He doesn’t know when he started crying. Maybe it was in the car. Or on the walk over the hill. Maybe it was when he stepped foot out of the hospital. Didn’t matter. All that mattered is that he was standing in front of his best friend’s casket.

A clergyman drolls on about some nonsense about ashes to ashes and whatever lark is supposed to sooth the bereaved.

A man of the cloth speaking at Sherlock’s funeral. What a joke.

John can feel himself laughing and going by the horrified look on Mrs. Hudson’s face he’s done it out loud. He sobers so not to embarrass himself further.

Can’t laugh at a funeral for Christ sakes

The clergyman finishes just as the sky opens bringing forth a rather cinematic down pour upon all of them. Mycroft opens his umbrella, ushering Mrs. Hudson and Molly into a car and sends them off before going back to John.

“Time to go home, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft says as he watches the casket sink into the ground.

“I have no home. Not anymore.” John just shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets, walking away.

Mycroft watches John go, knowing his every move will be tracked and monitored.

John walks for hours. He’s soaked to the bone and the rain only comes down harder. Thoughts come in waves and flashes. Everything he and Sherlock ever did, ever said. Every look, smile, laugh, row, chase, meal, breath, touch. All of it.

He thinks about the last few days. How he missed Sherlock being suicidal. He knew Sherlock was a bit manic with all that was going on with Moriarty but how could he miss Sherlock on the edge of killing himself? He was a doctor for fuck sakes! He should have known! He should have seen!

It doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t add up. Nothing makes sense. Not anymore...

The glowing neon sign of a pub catches his eye and suddenly he feels how the damp cold has chilled him. He’ll stop in for a pint just to clear his head and relax. He needs to relax so he can think. So he can figure out what happened. So he can figure out how he missed his best friend being suicidal.

The pub is warm and smells nice. Damp patrons huddle around tables having ducked in to get out of the wet. The conversations are hushed, as if keeping secrets from him.

John sits at the far end of the bar. He knows he’s dripping onto the floor but he’s maxed out on caring. He orders a pint and sits there holding it, staring into the foam as it will give him all the answers he seeks. It won’t. He knows it won’t but he wouldn’t be the first Watson to look for answers in a lager.

The telly plays useless news and celebrity drivel. Who’s marrying who. A secret pregnancy. A sordid affair resulting in a bloody double murder. A suicide.

John’s head snaps to the television set. The bar has gone quiet. Everyone watching the flickering screen as the reporter rehashes a repeated story.

“Three days ago Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death from the roof of Saint Bart’s. The investigation is still on going on whether this fake genius was involved in a global crime syndicate which dealt not only with drugs and gun running as well as human trafficking. We’ve tried to get in touch with John Watson, Sherlock Holmes’ partner and blogger, for an interview but have received no word back. The evidence makes it seem unlikely the once awarded RAMC battlefield surgeon has anything to do with any crimes. Just another poor victim caught up in Sherlock Holmes’ psychopathic web.”

John chugs his pint, leaves money on the bar and walks out. He needs booze. A lot of booze.

After raiding a liquor store of basically their entire stock John walks to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson isn’t in. Probably staying at her sister’s.

Hopefully she’s being looked after.

John leaves a trail of wet clothes around the living room on the way to the shower. He sets the bags on the table, the glass bottles clinking inside the bags as well as the glass tubes on the table. He grabs a bottle from the bag and goes to the bathroom, turning on the shower blisteringly hot. Standing under the spray he opens the bottle, the cap giving a satisfying cracking noise as he screws up off and he drinks.

The water eventually goes cold and his bottle is empty so he gets out of the shower. Toweling off, he walks to his room, throwing the empty bottle into the bin on the way and picking up another. He opens the second bottle and tosses the cap down the stairs. Once he’s dressed he goes back down to his chair and sits, the bags of booze on the floor next to him. He can’t look at Sherlock’s chair so he stares at his feet and drinks. His feet have blisters from walking for hours in his dress shoes and wet socks.

Around the third or fourth bottle he finally passes out. His sleep is blissfully dreamless.

Waking some time in the afternoon to his head pounding and his mouth dry. He drinks and he drinks and he drinks for days.

Greg comes by at some point, tells John he’s there for him and how sorry he is. John doesn’t say anything.

Mrs. Hudson brings him meals. Apparently she works out her grief through cooking.

John’s phone rings so much and so often he has to turn it off. His blog is flooded with mourner and trolls and everything in between. He turns off the comments.

The night he finally gets himself up to bed instead of passing out in his chair he’s woken by noise down in the flat. He was still, listening to the noise. Foot steps. He gets up slowly, pulling his gun from his drawer and makes his way down the stairs being careful to avoid the ones that squeak. He freezes at the door to the sitting room as he hears violin music fill the air. Slowly he pushes the door open to see a dark figure standing in front of the window with their back to John.

The figure plays beautifully, gently swaying to the music as they get lost in the rhythm. John knows this song. John knows this person.

“S-Sherlock?” John whispers, gun still posed to fire.

“Took you long enough, John.” Sherlock drawls. He sounds far away. His voice was barely audible.

John steps closer, trembling. “You’re here. You’re alive.”

“As usual you see but you don’t observe, John.” Sherlock continues to play, the song turning to something frightful.

John’s heart pounds as he makes his way to stand behind Sherlock.

“I know. I know. I miss everything. But you’re back.” John sounds so relieved.

“Of course. I’m always with you, John. You’ll never be rid of me.” Sherlock turns suddenly. His face is ghostly white and his curls are plastered to his face with caked up clotted blood.

John screams and drops his gun, falling backwards over the coffee table, smacking his head on the floor. He groans and slowly sits up, feeling the lump forming on the back of his head.

“John! John!” Mrs. Hudson calls out as she comes up the stairs. She had heard his scream.

“I’m alright, Mrs. Hudson.” John frowns, looking around the now empty room.

Mrs. Hudson comes in and sees him on the floor, the broken coffee table under him. “Oh John.” She frowns deeply and tries to help him up.

“I’m fine!” He shouts and she jumps.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I just..” John feels shame burn his face.

“You’ve just had a bit too much to drink and you’ve tripped over the coffee table. It’s alright.” Mrs. Hudson says softly. “Let’s get you up to bed.”

John nods numbly, thinking it better off not telling her what he says. He gets up and let’s Mrs. Hudson put him to bed.

“Try and sleep. Tomorrow will be better.” Mrs. Hudson says softly and smoothes the cover over John.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson..” John says softly.

“Of course, dear. Just this once.” She smiles softly and pats his hand before going back to her own bed.

John stares at the ceiling for what seems like hours. He finally gets up and pulls out his laptop. He needs to get out of this flat and to do that he needs a job. After hours of filling out applications he goes down to shower and shaves away the stubble that had built up. He cleans up the flat, taking out the garbage and cleaning up all the cups of tea Mrs. Hudson had made. Everything he does is disconnected from himself, his actions done with practice easy as if his brain was turned off.

John sat in an office the next afternoon. His forth interview of the day and hopefully this one would pan out. His interviewer was late. Not that he minded. He knew his A&E work was and how work sprung up at the most inopportune times.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry.” A tall woman strolls in, her scrubs rumpled and dirty. “Had a woman come and she nicked her hand while making dinner only she’s also in blood thinners.” She pulls off her scrub top, looking through her desk drawer for a clean one to go back over her long sleeve top.

“It’s alright. I understand.” John nods, hazarding a half smile.

“Yes I suppose you would. Your resume is rather impressive. An army surgeon.” She pulls a new scrub top on. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John feels the air sucked from his lungs. “Afghanistan.” He manages to get out.

“I wondered why we hadn’t met. Iraq.” She nods and holds out her hands. “Dr. Wilma Thompson, formerly Major Thompson.”

John stands and shakes her hand. “Captain John Watson.”

“Captain.” Wilma smiles and shakes his hand. “Now I have to be honest and tell you I’ve heard of you.”

“Ah.” John nods and slowly takes his hand back. This is exactly how the other interviews had ended. They had thanked him for his time and the last one was particularly nasty, saying how they couldn’t have a disgraced doctor working there.

“None of that. Personally I don’t believe anything that I haven’t seen with my own two eyes and I certainly don’t hold with gossip or conjecture. Your work is impeccable and your references spotless despite the recent news. I am sorry about your friend.” Wilma says softly.

John swallows hard. “Thank you. Very much.”

“Not that that business is out of the way I would like to put you on rotation for a few probationary shifts.” Wilma pulls up the schedule on her computer.

John blinks, surprised. “Umm yeah. I mean yes please. You’ve got to make sure I can do my job.” He nods.

“No, Dr. Watson. To make sure you like working here.” Wilma smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave me a comment and let me know what you think!


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